Old Liu has endured60 winterstreading 'cross wet Sichuan lanes.Walking onto curbs once more he has nothing but miseryto account for all his footsteps.

Aunti Ma

Aunti ma lives on the inside of an asphault curbbetween bamboo groveswhere coal tucks rumble byOn her balcony hang brightly colored sweaters, sausages and minced pork.Her son is in prison andthe government gives her monthly majang moneywhich she invest wiselyin the luck of the draw.

Ting Ting

Ting Ting wears her badge proudly, smartly dressed in navy blueshe walks confidently out into the rain,cappuccino in hand.Last night she and her husbandmade love for a full 3 minuteswhile she thought of her first loveand he thoughtof the car he wants to buy.

I Used to Have a Friend

I used to have a friendwho wore crimson robesand talked about sentient beingsuntil he tried to kiss me too many timesand now we aren't friendsanymore.

In a House on the Hill

In a house on the hill behind the lamasarylives a girl who at willwillblow a lama.They say she is the prettiest in the valley.Her photoonce in the teachers walletnow hangs on our refrigerator doormasturbation material no more.Now she is just a girl.

Poetry

I write poems for people to readso that they dont haveto think.

Ama's White Cat

Ama's white cathas a few blackspots. It's hair is toasted golden brownon both sides.Topped with blackberry jamI could eat this crisp pastrywith a hot cup of coffee.Meow, meow, he cries his waythrough another winterwhile I feed the fire.

Blue Triangle

A blue trianglewith a picture ofa woman, a manand a poor soul whohas lost the willor the ability to walk.Demons be gone!Get up and walk!Everyone else is!The arrow says, "go left"!

The Alcoholic

I know that the thin man with gentle eyesis not her father.The man with a shoulderhunched up as if resting on an invisible arm chair. The man with curly hair, mustach.The tired man.The alcoholic.

Her Real Father

When she looks at himshe is looking into a mirror.Sitting across from himshe is sitting across from herself.For her mother, the world stopswhen he enters the room.She serves him, beds him down, cares for him in the nightwhile we all listen.I wonder when they first fell in loveand how they endurebeing apart for so long.

Hope

We used to be rich among the yellow proletariat.Now they drink lattes and savor chocolate chip muffinswhile I sip my cold coffee and a woman in a parka sweepsAlas, there is hope yet.

There, there

What does a 40 year oldAmerican man,unshaven,scarf wrapped around his headheld in place by a leather gatsbyshivering and wild eyedlook likewhile riding on a motorcyclebehind a dearest Zhuomabarely come of age,thick hands at the throttle,eyes pearing foward at an ice road,face covred against the windas he pats her thighs occassionallylike he would a baby's headin order to saysomehowthere therelife will get better soon.

The Bunk Across the Way

Sometimes it's niceto imagine the girlin the bunk across the wayon her stomachtwo pearly buttockspale as jasmine budsyoung like butterfliesface in a pillowbreath quickeningas she has no ideawhat your doing back there.Are you smelling it?Is your mouth watering?Is your heart racing?She only feels your beardon the inside of her thighs.This moment will pass quickly for you bothbefore you fall asleep knowing nothing about the girl in the bunk across the way.

A Bitch

A bitch is a woman who comes in shoutingMerry Christmas!known by all behind the counterwho kowtow to her knee highsand tight jeans.Let the world knowit's a Bank America visathat worked when she was in KoreaWhy does she have the habitto rub her tight asswhile waiting to signthe receipt?

Daughters

Do mothers cry at daughter's weddingsbecause they are losing daughtersor because daughters are changing into something no longer pure, innocent or sacred?

Mr. Wu

Mr. Wu has converted the 3rd floorinto a Temple.As a corrupt manhe can afford the golden buddasthat would save himfrom all of his sins.

Men In Robes

The men in robes are more wickedthan those that they preach to.Graft, sloth, lust and liespaint a vivid picture.The result of their prayerswill be vindication.

Smart Phone

The smart phone was inventedfor writing poetry.Other features are mearly a distractionfor those who are easilymisled.Life is like this.

Orange

An orangeor a tangerinefell off a cartbeing pulledon the wet asphaltits color was brighterthan all the other orangesput togetherand yet was seen as dirty.The simple manwho lives from day to daywill give it valueand taste its juices at last!

We live within wallsin a place called oursI on the balcony smoking my pipeand writing these silly thingsYou in your library giggling as you chatwith a friendthe yellow cabinet smiles at mehe wears a flower pot as a capthe sun shinesbreezes blowit is unbearable for us both we knowto not be outside of these wallsin a place called our own

I am Looking For Something

I am looking for somethingthat is the sound of her laughthe color of her eyesthe blush of her cheeksthe tangle of her hairthe thickness of her handsthe frankness of her wordsher statureher smell.

My Counter

On my counter there is a strainera cup and a pot of flowers shaped like penisesa stainless steel electric water potsome yak butter cookiesand a coffee grinder bought in Japana pipe, three bowls and a can of tobaccoWhat isn't on my counter is my souland the secrets of my heart.

Cars

I used to dream of a girl whose mom drove a white Toyota 4-runner She was 14 and I had a motorbike.I used to dream of a girl I worked withShe was 16 and I had a Volkswagen.I used to dream of a girl whose last name also started with the letter BShe had a 70's Mustang the color of avocados.Now I don't dream of girls anymore.

Ju Li Village proved to be more beautiful that I had imagined. Mornings and late afternoons were golden. Bare trees glowed. Shadows on snow mountains were confusing blues. My paint gummed up, my hands froze, I caught a cold and came home with one painting. Was it worth it? Yes.

""Those works created from solitude and from pure and authenticcreative impulses – where the worries of competition, acclaim andsocial promotion do not interfere – are, because of these very facts,more precious than the productions of professionals. After a certainfamiliarity with these flourishings of an exalted feverishness, livedso fully and so intensely by their authors, we cannot avoid thefeeling that in relation to these works, cultural art in its entiretyappears to be the game of a futile society, a fallacious parade."

Last Saturday a friend and I ventured into the countryside on our bikes and ended up on a bridge that I painted 7 years ago. It was a strange, sudden, unexpected coincidence that I would be taken back there again. These things for me are meaningful in their own way.

Today I went out and painted these three paintings in the area that I am becoming more and more fond of. The banging of small ironworks factories echos across scrubby hills dotted with graves. In the lower areas between are fields green with letuce, broadbeans, old chilly plants and lots of red and white turnips.

All of the stuff of the city, all of the glitter, all of the things to do, to buy, to see can not compare to one small flying creature landing on my easel, indeed to the earth that clings to the bottom of my stool.